Oriental Massage
by Wicked.Intentions
Summary: Nazi Zombies! Takeo/Tank, suggested Richtofen/Nikolai. Takeo offers to give a stiff-muscled Tank a good ol'-fashioned oriental massage with different results.


**Disclaimer:** _Call of Duty: Black Ops_, all characters and settings, and anything else you would recognize as pertaining to this video game does not belong to me. The plot itself belongs to me. I do not intend to make any money off the writing of this fan fiction; it is merely for entertainment purposes.

* * *

**Title: **_Oriental Massage._

**Complete Story Summary:** Takeo offers to give a stiff-muscled Tank a good ol'-fashioned oriental massage with different results.

**Story Pairing(s):** Takeo Masaki/Tank Dempsey, suggested Edward Richtofen/Nikolai Belinski.

**Story Rating:** T.

**Chapter Content:** Slightly coarse language, slight male/male contact.

**Notes:** I noticed that nobody has posted a story like this involving Takeo. While he's not my favorite, I believe this is wrong. So this is my entry.

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Tank groaned loudly, awkwardly reaching behind himself to clutch at a particularly painful muscle that was giving him walking problems. He lagged behind his three other teammates, who were currently headed to the theater to engage in some teleporting to upgrade weapons in the oh-so helpful Pack-a-Punch machine in the room above the theater with the projector inside. Also, it would give them a chance to rustle around in those dusty film reels and see if there was anything worth watching while they waited for another horde of zombies to attack.

"Hurry it up, Dempsey!" Nikolai called over a shoulder, leaping into the teleporter with excitement. It always gave him such a rush, and he looked forward to these uses of it. And nobody, especially the American, was going to hold him up.

Richtofen, casting a curious eye on the limping Dempsey, wondered if he was injured enough to serve as an experiment. He slowed his pace, stroking his chin in thought as he observed the Marine.

Takeo, who had taken his place beside the impatient Russian in the teleporter, also examined his American teammate with a critical eye. He was no stranger to these sorts of things.

"I'm comin', I'm comin'!" Dempsey grumbled, hobbling forward past Richtofen. He clutched his back with more force, hoping that the pressure of his grip would numb the pain and allow him to walk normal again. He took his spot in the back of the teleporter, wanting to avoid the stares of the other three men. It was a bit unnerving to be analyzed that much when it was a simple problem. He was fine.

Richtofen suddenly decided that he had other things to attend to and tossed his MP40 to Nikolai, asking him to upgrade it for him.

"Fine, fine, but you owe me, Nazi," he was reminded.

"Ja, I am aware. Now get going." Richtofen slapped a button on the teleporter, sending them on that spiraling, nauseating trip to the Pack-a-Punch machine.

As soon as they had materialized in said room, Tank stumbled, struggling to regain his balance and biting his lip at the sharp pain this movement produced. This was getting ridiculous. He needed someone to walk on his back or something…

Nikolai tapped his foot loudly as Takeo carefully inserted his gun into the precious machine, commenting on how it was like standing in a grocery store line while waiting for his turn to get a couple of those incredible, intriguing guns that were spat back out.

Takeo, having retrieved his newly shiny and upgraded gun, made his way over to where Tank was hunched over, unslinging his Galil from his side.

"It appears as if you need a most soothing massage," Takeo told him with a serious face. "It would be most dishonorable of you to deny my offer. Meet with me upstairs after you have upgraded your weapon." He gave these instructions to a disbelieving Tank quietly through the sounds of Nikolai ranting about all of the zombies he was going to kill now.

With that, he disappeared, the teleporter calling him back to the lobby.

Tank shook his head, going over to the Pack-a-Punch machine to upgrade after Nikolai had finished with Richtofen's MP40.

* * *

Letting out a small groan when he had reached the final step, he turned and exited the upstairs lobby, going into the very next room. He glanced around, confusedly searching for the Japanese man. "This is bullshit. The fucker invites me, and he doesn't even hold up his end? Must have been a joke…"

"I assure you, I do not joke," Takeo muttered behind him, popping a couple of his knuckles idly.

Tank spun around, biting back a cry of pain at the horrible sensations that erupted.

The Japanese man shook his head at this, picking up a table he had temporarily set down next to him when he had noticed that the American had showed up and was doubting him. He carried it easily further into the room and to the balcony overlooking the theater. Setting the table down and shaking it a bit to test its durability, he peered over the edge of the balcony railing to check on the other members of their team.

Nikolai was lounging in one of the reclining theater chairs far below them, stroking and tracing the designs on his Zeus Cannon. The echoing thumps of Richtofen's Nazi boots resounded throughout the theater, alerting Nikolai to his approach. He thrust the Afterburner out towards the Nazi wordlessly.

"Oh, thank you, my Russian friend," Richtofen exclaimed sweetly. He immediately seated himself to the Russian's right, leaning uncomfortably close with a grin, which Nikolai returned with less enthusiasm and more nervousness.

Takeo pulled himself away from the scene, disinterested. He motioned with a couple fingers that Tank should get on top of the table had had set down.

With a sigh, Tank shuffled over and heaved himself on top of the table with a grimace and small exhalation of pain.

"Lie on your front, please."

Gratefully, Tank eased himself into the position that Takeo had requested, relieved at the stress that was taken off of his injured back muscles.

Takeo was about to request that Tank help him remove the American's Marine jacket, but he was cut off at the sound of Nikolai laughing boisterously. He glanced over the balcony again to observe the behaviors of his teammates.

Richtofen was grinning largely from ear to ear, and Nikolai was slapping his back, laughter erupting from his lips.

"Nikolai likes! That is hilarious! The American really did that?"

Takeo amusedly watched as Tank grit his teeth and groped for his weapon.

Richtofen nodded eagerly. He relaxed a bit, humor fading. "Let's go out to zhe alleyway, Russian." He trailed a couple fingers over Nikolai's arm suggestively, who eyed this with suspicion.

"All right… but try nothing funny."

"Of course. I am innocent. After you."

Enjoying this new development, Takeo returned his attention to his American ally. "I think it would be best if you removed your shirt."

The Marine gave him a dirty look. "I don't think so, Jap. No 'under-the-clothes' stuff."

With a sigh, Takeo slid a knife out of his boot, flipping it idly in the air a couple times, threatening him. "I will ruin your clothing if that is what you want. However, I suggest that you cooperate should you wish to keep your clothing in usable order."

Grumbling, Tank eased himself upwards a little so that he could wiggle out of his green jacket. The Japanese man moved forward to assist, tugging the rough clothing off, leaving Tank in his white tank top and jingling dog tags. A quick look at the stoic Asian man confirmed that he wanted that off as well. "The dog tags stay," Tank growled possessively.

"I do not understand the American soldier's attachment to a couple pieces of metal, but that is fine. The white shirt will need to be removed though."

Tank wasn't happy with this, but he grunted, allowing the other man to pull the shirt up and over his head. It was carelessly tossed aside, on top of the abandoned jacket.

Takeo scanned the expanse of exposed, muscled tan flesh with a blank face. Outwardly, he displayed no interest in the obnoxious soldier, but inwardly, he was grinning foolishly and eager for what was to come. Kind of like how Richtofen was eagerly busy with—well, that wasn't important at the moment.

He cracked his knuckles in preparation, leaning forward, deciding on where to begin. He gently pressed his closed fists in random spots along the American's defined back, listening for any verbal signs of pain.

He pressed along Tank's lower back and paused when he let out a strangled groan. He had found where the pain was centered around, but he had no intention of relieving the man of his agony. He passionlessly rubbed circles into his lower back, quietly climbing atop the table with him.

Tank perked up when the table began groaning in protest from the extra weight, and he turned his head to see what was going on. He found himself staring at a confident smirk and shaven chin.

"What the hell—" Tank was cut off by a pair of lips hungrily devouring his own. They were relentless, and it didn't take long for a tongue to be nudging in between his lips, seeking entry without consent. The American would have gasped out at this sudden onslaught, but doing so would allow the Japanese bastard easy access to his mouth, and he wasn't that stupid. He remained silent but with his lips pursed together as tight as he could.

Takeo didn't approve of this action, so he settled himself down onto Tank, his groin aligning with the man's rear, and he mercilessly dug a couple fingers into the sore spot of his lower back.

Tank couldn't bite back the curse that parted his lips for the Asian man, and he found himself getting intimate with the taste of the foreign man. His neck strained from the position it was in, but Takeo kept him from turning his head with one hand, his fingers buried in his skin and drawing blood.

Slowly, the Japanese man ground his hips against Tank's backside, curling his tongue around the other man's unresponsive one impatiently. It was like kissing a corpse, and that wasn't something he did while he was sober.

Tank hated this position. He wasn't the receiver, _damn it!_ But he sure as hell wasn't taking it from a Jap, even if said Jap readily stood by his side and slaughtered zombies every day. He bucked his hips with a surge of his abdominal and back muscles, crying out at the ripping sensation bursting from his lower back.

Takeo muttered in distaste in his native language from his sprawled out pose upon the cold, unforgiving floor.

Tank forced himself up to his feet, snatching his clothing from the ground in anger. "I ain't fuckin' bein' your toy, Jap."

"Next time you are attacked by a zombie and are helpless on the ground, I am not helping," Takeo told him with a twitch of his brow.

"That's all right. I'm too awesome to get attacked."

Suddenly, a delighted squeal tolled out, ringing painfully in their ears. Richtofen bounded into the theater in absolute glee, his arms in the air, his head thrown back with an expression of ecstasy pure on his features.

Tank and Takeo shuffled over to the balcony railing in confusion to see what the Nazi doctor was so happy about.

"_Ahhh_, my prediction came true! _Zhe zombies!_ Zhey are falling from zhe ceiling!"

Tank had only a second to snap his gaze up to the ceiling above them to see bloodthirsty, snarling Nazi zombies crawling through holes. They began to rain down around them violently, easily climbing back to their feet, appearing rather hungry and vicious.

Takeo smiled, turning on his heel and making his way (quickly) out of the room and down the staircase of the lobby, leaving a half-unclothed, injured American to curse loudly and grab for his gun and fight for his life.

Next time, assuming the man lived, he'd think twice about denying Takeo's kisses.


End file.
